Jaques.

I pry'thee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.

Ros.

They say, you are a melancholy fellow.

Jaq.

I am so; I do love it better than laughing.

Ros.

Those, that are in extremity of either, are abominable fellows; and betray themselves to every modern censure, worse than drunkards.

Jaq.

Why, 'tis good to be sad, and say nothing.

Ros.

Why then, 'tis good to be a post.

Jaq.

I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtiers, which is proud; nor the soldier's,

which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politick; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these; but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.

Ros.

A traveller! by my faith, you have great reason to be sad: I fear, you have sold your own lands to see other mens; then, to have seen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands.

Jaq.

Yes, I have gain'd me experience.

Ros.

And your experience makes you sad: I had rather have a fool to make me merry, than experience to make me sad, and to travel for it too.

Orla.

Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind!

Jaq.

Nay, then God b'w'y you, an you talk in blank verse.